


simplicity

by the_mixed_up_files_of_me



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff, F/M, Gen, I couldn't tag all the friendships and relationships but this is definitely 'gen' and 'multi', Multi, an exploration of character dynamics, five teenagers in a hotel what could possibly go wrong (or right)?, skating!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-05-23 20:51:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14941175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_mixed_up_files_of_me/pseuds/the_mixed_up_files_of_me
Summary: alternatively: a DEH ice skating AU





	1. simplicity and the lack thereof

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> It's been a while since I've posted a new story on here. I've really missed this so much. Life has been hectic, as I've almost finished school and am writing my first novel. But I've had this story in my mental queue for a long time and I've been itching to write it. Figure skating is something very close to my heart, so to be able to share that with all of you means a lot. 
> 
> I think I might make a music playlist for this fic at some point, which I will be sure to link!
> 
> I'll stop rambling now, don't worry. Here's chapter 1 of my skating AU! Xx

Zoe has been skating for as long as she can remember.

Sitting on the kitchen floor, she has paged through the photo albums dozens of times. Immortalised in the picture, two year old Zoe candidly glanced up at the camera with a determined smile as she balanced on her skates. Larry knelt on the ice, keeping her balanced.

Beside that particular photo is another, only now she's a bit older. By now, she’s taken a few hard falls and it’s made her stand on her own.

Cynthia took more pictures than Zoe can count. In this picture, Zoe can see more of present self. The thin wisps of baby hair have now been pulled back in a glossy, wavy ponytail. Larry is nowhere to be seen; she could skate on her own now and hasn’t looked back. Her skates had small stars drawn onto them, a few of them smudged but all of them she took pride in. Cynthia always sighed, always told her to ' _please stop drawing on your clothing, it’s expensive_ …’.

Zoe ignored this reminder. She had to make the stiff white skates feel like stepping into a second home.

Skating runs in her family, it runs in the school, it runs in the community. The fever started when, a few years ago, their own local girl made it to the Olympics. She came in fifth but in everyone's minds, she won gold. Zoe distinctly recalls that night she watched her final program; the softness of their old sofa, the warmth of the tea in her hands, her family's excited comments around her, her own quickening pulse as she watched the girl that she passed on the street suddenly under a burning spotlight.

The whole world watched her catch light in her silver blades. Adrenaline overload and defying gravity—it’s intoxicating to watch and Zoe craves to feel it in her own body, under her own skin.

Ever since that night, ice skating was stitched into the community’s lives.

Zoe’s especially.

Skating becomes something she doesn’t just love to do.

She needs to do it.

\---

Jared just says that Evan skates because it's the closest that he'll ever get to second base with a girl.

Evan doesn't laugh at this comment but he does offer Jared a tolerant, weary smile.

From anyone else, his skin would crawl and he'd stammer out a dismissal of this. However, Jared doesn't mean any harm by this; he rarely ever means what he says.

Probably.

Evan has been doing pairs with Alana since last year; she cornered him in the school hallway and said that her partner is 'an idiot who doesn't listen to reason'. Evan was the first person she saw and she decided he'd be suitable— she told this to him, too.

"Okay," he agreed, because he didn't want to upset, disappoint or anything in between.

Heidi was elated by the prospect, significantly more than Evan was.

"This is great for you," she kept saying, as if this would somehow impress into Evan's mind the idea that _this is in fact great for him._

And it's not great but it does work. Alana does all the talking for them, she handles everything. He just has to show up at the rink, skates in hand. Their height difference is good, they are aesthetically pleasing to look at on the ice. His arm has healed and he can lift her surprisingly well, better than he expected. She's agile, technical; from that aspect, she's easy to skate with.

At first, some fraction of himself was worried about how awkward it would be to hold her hand, skate with someone that he barely knows. Just talking to Zoe in the crowded school hallways is fraught with enough stumbling speech and fumbling hands.

Those concerns abruptly dissipated during their first class together.

"My waist, Evan," Alana had snapped, "I'm not crawling with germs. Just grab me."

So he did and with that, he stopped thinking twice about it.

He's a just body that she's touching, a hand that she's holding. And vice versa. There's no connection under their fingertips, nothing that binds them together on the ice in an unspoken but visible way.

The skating is shallow but it's excellent. Shallowness has an appeal, it’s easy to stomach and quick to judge.

It's Evan. It's Alana. Not Evan and Alana. Not Alana and Evan. The _and_ is an important factor that they miss the mark of.

Evan can't remember the last time they talked outside of the rink.

\---

Jared is in singles. Evan can't tell if Jared actually likes skating or if he just does it because his mother wants him to. Some days, the line between both alternatives is blurred. Jared's good and he knows it; he enjoys knowing that he's good at it.

His style is calculated, unemotional and technical. The numbers are what he expresses the most interest in. How high can he push his technical score? The music is an afterthought.

"Just pick whatever," he tells his coach who sighs. She's something of a mother who keeps him in line and a tired guardian angel who periodically reminds him to be moral.

He doesn't care enough to listen to mothers, guardian angels or anyone else.

"Do you actually like skating?" Evan ventured to ask on one snowy walk home from school.

Jared had shrugged. "I like being good at it."

He's a judge favourite too. He wins most of the local competitions. They find him clean. Slightly choppy, but efficient with sharp lines. There's nothing conceited in his skating, but every competition is about _him_ ; the other skaters just happen to be lucky enough to be there.

\---

Connor used to skate.

When Zoe talks about it at dinner, he rolls his eyes. Stupid skating, he silently but clearly indicates.

He doesn’t roll his eyes when he thinks about it on his own.

It's ridiculous, he muses, so ridiculous that he still clings onto it in his mind. It didn't work, he couldn't do it. It's another annoying part of himself that he wants to shake off. That and everything else.

People still stop him when he's walking down the snow-covered sidewalks, at the store, at school; they still say the same pointless, weightless things.

The most recent occurrence of this is in a line at the cinema.

"You're Connor Murphy?"

 _Unfortunately_. "Yes."

Connor turns around to look at the older woman who has a death grip on the shoulder of her rambunctious grandson. "Say hi," she orders him.

The boy scowls and instead tries to kick Connor who doesn't even flinch. The grandmother apologises, occupying him with a soda.

 _Screw kids_.

"Such a shame you decided to quit," she says to him, "We all were big fans of yours."

God, it's as if they're all skating obsessed here.

 _Screw everyone_.

"Thanks." _Not_.

He leaves the line. What's the point in staying, he can't even remember the name of the movie he was going to see. Pushing open the glass doors of the cinema, he is welcomed by a cold hit of air. It’s a punch to the lungs, to the stomach.

"Want a free ticket?" he asks a couple who almost get knocked over by him leaving. He hands it to them without waiting for a response, eager to get it off of his hands, just like the rest of the day now.


	2. simplicity and complexities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> Thank you so much for the lovely, supportive comments on the first chapter. I now present you all with the second chapter! 
> 
> I will try to update as often as I can. Much love to all of you <3

The state team is built by October and the results are not surprising to anyone off the list or on it. The list read as follows:

Women Singles: Zoe Murphy

Pairs: Evan Hansen, Alana Beck

Men Singles: Jared Kleinman

Ice Dancing: Sabrina Patel, Matt Holtzer

\---

Evan had suspected that this would happen. The judges at their local completion were partial to them.

Now, as he stands in the hallway of the rink, eyeing the list, a quell of anxiety rises in his throat, bile in his stomach. Local competitions, where he knows everyone, the venues, the details, the rinks, are completely different than this new state competition. This means travelling. This means real completion. This means someone breathing down your neck, hoping that you slip on the ice, break your hips and are hospitalised. This is another step to the Olympics.

They'll never make it that far, they're not good enough. He is relieved by that idea, more than he knows he should be.

Zoe unexpectedly edges her way through the crowd of skaters, catching his arm. Swirling around, he feels as though he's standing closer to her than he actually is.

_Words._

_Choke out words._

_Literally anything._

"Congrats on the win," he spits out.

A pause.

"I didn't win anything…yet," she says but she smiles. The smile doesn't work, it doesn't dampen down his mortification of his verbal stumble. "You are really good with Alana. Good for you. I'm glad you made the list."

"Thank you." _At least I didn't screw that up_.

Zoe nods. She never holds his gaze as long as he wishes she would, she never lingers as much as he wishes he would. Zoe is already moving past him, toward Alana. Alana's reaction is quite opposite of Evan's, not that he'd expect it to be the same as his.

He overhears Alana chirp to Zoe, "Thank you! Yes, we do work very hard on our routines."

Evan can't even remember the steps when he's off the ice.

He doesn't even remember the name of the song.

\---

"We're so proud of you, sweetie. You've been putting in a lot of effort for this."

Cynthia's words wash over Zoe pleasantly. Praise for her skating is the highest she believes that she can get. Don't tell her how pretty her costumes are, don't tell her that she's just good. Tell her she works hard, tell her that her effort is not in vain, and she'll love you forever.

Connor sits on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs slowly and eating chips. Zoe glances from her parents, her eyes tracing over past the tile floor, past the kitchen cabinets, finally connecting with his.

 _He resents me_.

Somehow, this doesn't unsettle her. She resents him, he resents her. They're even now, at least. Equals in resentment are better than being unequal in conflict, she deems.

Shouldering her skates, she heads toward her bedroom. Connor slides off the counter, following her into her bedroom.

"Who else made the list?"

A normal conversation? A simple question? Impossible.

Zoe starts taking off her scarf, her jacket, leaving them in a heap on the floor. She bides her time before she answers. Normal conversations with her brother are rarer than striking gold.

"Jared, Alana, Sabrina, Matt and Evan."

As if those five people are lined up against Zoe's bedroom wall right now, Connor seems to point, to narrow in on just one of them. "I didn't know Evan skated."

"Evan didn't either till 'Lana told him to skate with her."

"That freak? Is he any good?"

"He's not a freak, and yes. Yes, he's very good."

Zoe looks over at her brother finally, waiting for a reaction. He doesn't give her any. His eyes, still blank, aren't as glassy as they used to be, not bloodshot anymore. His gaunt, bony, fragile body is looking less anaemic. It's less of a ghost stumbling around the house and more of a person.

"New medication," he'd shortly told her a few weeks ago. She hadn't even asked, only glanced up at him over her cereal.

"Good," she had replied just as shortly.

Good. Yes. That's one way of putting it.

Maybe he won't screw up her life so much anymore. Maybe he'll act like the older sibling. Maybe he'll be what, who, he's supposed to be.

Or maybe he won't.

Either way, she knows he won't be returning to skating any time soon.

\---

Connor hasn't gone to the rink in at least a year. He stopped going to Zoe's performances and competitions long before then. She was off-balanced by his presence during her skates so he backed out before she got a chance to tell him off.

Sometimes, Connor would just to stand next to the ice and think.

Some people go on walks to think.

He stands still and lets the thoughts walk to him.

The one part of the new meds that he dislikes as much as he needs it, is having a clearer head. His thoughts aren't uncontrolled anymore. He says what he means now, he reacts how he wants to react now. He's not watching his body interact with the world anymore; he's in it and these are his fingers, legs and arms. Now when he feels things, he feels _all_ of it. He also can think rationally about his skating, something he's always repressed, tied up, ripped to shreds and tampered down.

No. Now it's a choice not to skate, not something that everyone told him to do. It's his choice.

Evan is there, which he'd expected. Evan and a dozen other skaters. Conversations about the list are still lingering in the air, pushed back and forth between the skaters. A few notice Connor but they don't make a point to interact which he is grateful for.

Through the web of skaters, he locks eyes with Evan. Evan is skating with Alana, positioned behind her shoulder with his arm tucked around her waist, palm cupping her abdomen. Connor watches them both, their lines, their angles. Evan is eager to please on the ice, doing whatever Alana indicates. She's the dominant on the ice; if she could be both skaters, she would be.

It's free practice, no pressure, so when she pulls away to speak to another skater, Evan hesitantly skates to the boards.

"Hi, Connor."

"So you don't suck."

Evan doesn't know what to say, his lips parted but motionless.

"What?" Connor asks.

"What?" Evan's immediate thought is simple and repetitive: _you just failed this conversation_. From Connor's lifted eyebrows, Evan knows this thought isn't just a thought; it's a fact now. So he does the only thing he can think of which is apologise at least three or four times in a row, with an excuse nestled between each 'sorry'.

"Chill, kid." Connor is cooly distant. "So I saw you skating, that's what I was saying. You were good. I'm shocked."

"Thanks. Thank you."

"Yeah."

Evan doesn't dare meet Connor's eyes; eye contact has never been something that Evan has excelled at. Lucky for him, Connor is worse at it. He is staring more at Evan's cheekbone than his eyes when he says, "You're going to the state…thing."

"Alana and I are."

"So you are."

"Well, her and I."

"That's not what I said. _You're_ going."

"I am."

"Good."

"Really?"

"Yeah. That's good."

Connor, the boy who shoved him onto the concrete steps outside the school.

Connor, the boy who screamed in his face, expletives messily spilling from his lips.

Connor, the boy who Evan found in the school bathroom, throwing up from withdrawals until his body ached so badly he couldn't even resist Evan's attempts at helping him.

That's the day they don't talk about. Somehow, having the F word hissed at his face or the sidewalk cutting up his palms is less impressionable to Evan. Connor has been different around him since that day. Not grateful, not awkward, not unkind, not kind. Just different. A little part of himself was exposed and helpless.

Being seen like that was bad enough.

Being helped by the person he least expected was worse and better simultaneously.

He's been watching Evan for some time after that. Evan's actions gave him a clear head even before the right pills were swallowed down.

Briefly making visual contact, Connor shifts. Deciding that it's more uncomfortable to make eye contact, his eyes reflect the bright lights above as he glances upwards.

Evan, feeling the palatable silence, asks, "You used to skate? Jared told me that."

_Roll your eyes._

_Shrug it off._

_Ignore him._

_Walk away._

"Yeah, I did."

"You don't anymore?" Evan deems this a stupid question the moment he says it.

_Take offence._

_Get annoyed._

_Swear._

_Be rude._

"Well, it just wasn't working for me. Or I wasn't working for it. Either way…"

Evan says with sincerity, "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Thanks."

\---

"I'm working overtime this weekend," explains Larry when Zoe tells him the dates and location of the competition.

Cynthia reaches forward, sliding the list across the dinner table. Her eyes quickly scan it. "Me too. I'll be able to make the last day, Sunday but not the Saturday show." Ever since Connor has been recovering, she's been working again. It's a double bladed sword; it's another change to adjust to but at least she isn't throwing herself into useless hobbies to pass her time anymore.

"Well," Zoe says, aiming for patience because if they think that they're going to hold her back, they couldn't be more wrong, "I'll just go by myself."

It's not that far, just three hours away. Zoe has even stayed before at the hotel that the skaters are staying at.

"No," Cynthia says, "You're not staying alone at a hotel in another city."

"Please," Zoe tries to mask her sarcasm with an actual plea, "I can do it. Besides, I know the skaters there. And my coach will be there. Jared, Alana and Evan will be there too."

Connor, pushing his mashed potatoes into a tower, actually says, "It's not unreasonable."

Zoe would react more in surprise if she weren't so focused on her parents.

Cynthia, just relieved that her son is interacting with them more lately, takes a slow breath. "I'm sorry, Zoe."

"Dad." Zoe turns to him.

"Your mother is always right."

"What a happy marriage," Connor amusedly says, stirring the tower of potatoes around now.

Her lungs inflate with air, the soft curve of her lower lip trembling as the only giveaway of how difficult it is to repress angry tears. Not now, tears. Not right now. She doesn't know how lawyers can argue for hours without breaking down. Clasping her hands in her lap, her nails leave crescent moons into her palms. "When Connor went to all his events, you took him. You would have quit your job for him. Anything for Connor and his skating. What about mine? Am I not as good?"

"Zoe."

Zoe isn't yelling, she isn't crying; her tone is quiet and even. It's her quietness that indicates the most. The wealth of disbelieving anger stirring in her stomach is too overbearing to tie itself in her words. It's a rock, bound up and burning. Nothing can properly externalise it right now.

"Zoe." This time, it's her brother.

She stares at him in mute disbelief; as if he's one to speak.

\---

She goes to the rink because where else can she go? Her parents don't try to stop her, letting her work out her emotions while they think everything over.

They haven't locked up the rink yet and they don't dare stop her; her parents singlehandedly keep this rink open with the money they pour into it's programs. Their cup is overflowing.

The custodian lets her go, just like her parents did.

It's late for rink time, eight or nine. The last skaters of the day, a couple who barely can balance, are just stepping off as she laces up her skates. It's not until her blades cut into the surface that she exhales.

It's her's now. The rink is her's. The ice is her's.

The wire of her headphones swing as she glides toward the centre of the rink. Her toe pick holds her steady as she waits for her cue with the music. This is the routine that won over all the judges at the local competitions.

"Emotional," they said.

"Heartfelt," they said.

"Intense," they said.

Something about Dance Of The Knights by Prokofiev has that effect. It makes the judges lift their heads.

"Always make them look up," her coach said to her when they selected the music.

Zoe does.

She loses her footing on the attempted Axel, skidding across the ice. It's always the take-off; you can tell when a skater will fall based on the take-off. That was the first word of advice her coach ever gave her and it's stayed with her ever since. Aiming for it a second time, she lands it cleanly because the take-off was cleaner. Satisfaction blossoms in her chest.

Through her headphones, she periodically hears the hiss of her blades. Every bit of frustration floods through her veins; she's sweating and cold at the extremities. Her pulse pushes away her thoughts, one beat at a time.

It's Prokofiev and Zoe, The Dance Of The Knights and her skates.

\---

When she comes home, she showers and goes to bed. Through the wall, she hears her parents talking about it, her, still. There's no reason to talk about it, Zoe wants to call through the wall, You're only going to still say no.

It's almost midnight when her bedroom door is pushed open. Zoe is awake, halfway through _A Proud Taste for Scarlet and Miniver_. Cynthia sits down at the edge of the bed, waits for her daughter to set the book down.

Zoe expectantly does.

"Connor will go with you," are the first words out of her mother's mouth.


	3. simplicity and entanglement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, lovelies!
> 
> Just as a disclaimer, there is a detailed description of a panic attack. As someone who has them almost daily, I wrote about it how I personally experience them. Not everyone has the same symptoms. Just wanted to out that out there.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this next chapter. Thank you so much for the kudos and support. You all are so amazing. Love you all <3

Evan doesn't like hotels.

Some people love them.

He doesn't.

They're busy, constantly. Not knowing who is around him is even worse. Without Heidi, he feels as though he's been thrown into a pit with starving lions for the next few days.

Also, how much is a proper tip for room service? He can't remember. There was probably a course on this at school. Probably. The more he thinks about it, the more he doubts it.

He's relieved when Jared is chosen by the coach to be his roommate. Jared is, in a pinch, reliable. Unhurried. Steady. Not unlike his skating. It helps that he's known Evan for so long; he silently picks up on Evan's subtle cues. When someone calls the room, he answers it. When the cleaning maid asks if they need anything, he handles that too.

Evan knows he should thank Jared for this someday, but chances are that Jared doesn't even realise that he's doing this.

\---

Their schedule is relayed to them by their coach the next morning in the lobby. Their first skates are Saturday, their final long programs are on Sunday. Today, Friday, is their chance to do any last minute practicing. It's an offer that they latch onto.

Evan, picking at yogurt with his spoon, not daring to eat anything, sees Connor in the corner.

So Connor is here.

His thin arms are folded across his flannel-clad chest, head tilted against the wall. Noncommittal, his body says, impassive. Present and accounted for but not mentally here. His mind could be twenty galaxies away, lingering between stars and planets.

Evan would prefer to be twenty galaxies away right now.

Maybe Connor has room on his spaceship.

Alana's voice brings him back. "We're going to the rink?" It's a question. Sort of. Mostly a statement.

Evan stirs his plastic spoon, turning the unnatural pink yogurt around. "Sure."

She pauses, as if waiting for more but he doesn't give her anything else. His striped shirt presses against his forearm as her hand briefly touches his arm.

There are no tripping eyes and violent waves between them.

But she's a friend, so when she smiles he smiles back.

\---

Practice is always a bundle of nerves. There is rarely isolated time to practice; everyone is eagerly milling around, their blades marking up the ice instantly.

Connor sits on the cold metal bleachers and watches his sister.

Zoe lands her Axels perfectly and prays to every deity that she can do this again when it mattes.

Jared says as he breezes past her, "Your edges are messy."

"Thanks," she sarcastically replies.

Turning a lazy circle around her, he loosely shrugs. "Just a word of advice."

"I don't need your advice," she retorts.

He studies her. "Don't get thrown."

"Excuse me?"

"He's here. He doesn't come to any of your competitions, I've noticed. So…exactly like it sounds. Don't get thrown."

Small shreds of ice kick up onto her skates as he abruptly turns and glides away. Simmering in her throat is cold apprehension. There is no way that her hesitation can be so apparent. She's a master of stoicism, she's always has to be.

Risking a solitary glance at _him_ , she hates herself for it as it only deepens her agitated nerves. His presence is a unpleasant but necessary sacrifice for her art. Her mother never would have let her come if he hadn't— it was a push-pull trade. She doesn't know if she's pushing or pulling, but either way she's exhausted from the effort already.

Alana almost bumps into her motionless form. "Sorry," hastily she says, while taking Evan's hand and dragging him after her.

The one thing that alleviates his doubts and concerns is the skating itself; ironically, the one thing he's most concerned about. Focusing solely on Alana is enough to keep him balanced. Stepping off the ice is another thing altogether, where his focus flies in all directions and won't ever rest.

Before he left, Heidi did everything she could to assure him that everything is going to be fine. He nodded, disbelieving and quiet. "I'll be there for your final program on Sunday night," she said, managing a smile. He knows better than to ask her to try to come; time off of work is impossible, especially weekend shifts.

Complaining is the last thing he wants to do. Giving her a guilt complex is an even worse prospect.

"It's fine," he said, "The first program is short and during the day anyway. It's the last one that matters."

She might have been comforted by this, but it's anyone's guess. Most of her smiles are forced around him, a palatable façade over her worry about him.

He mirrors it around her, too.

\---

The lobby chairs and sofas are sprinkled with skaters that evening. It's not as if they're counting the hours to their first skates but there is a certain hum of anticipation and nervousness in the air. They're talking but hardly thinking twice about their words; their minds are replaying through their performances, accessing, their muscles flooded with the engrained memories.

Evan internalises all of the nerves of the skaters around him.

 _Not right now_.

 _Not now, please_.

He can hear his heartbeat, but his chest seems to have left his heart somewhere else because he swears he can't feel it there. Pressing his palm against the front of his shirt, he tries to feel his heart tangibly. It's there.

It doesn't feel like it is.

Maybe it's an allergic reaction. Maybe it's something he ate. If it's an allergic reaction, he'll have to go to the hospital. Alone. It would take Heidi two hours to get to him.

 _It's not an allergic reaction, it's a panic attack_.

 _Just another one_.

 _It might not be though_.

_It might be something legitimate now. I might be really sick. Something might be really wrong. It's entirely possible._

_Only it's not, it's just another panic attack…_

He might throw up and that idea sends his skin crawling with desperation to get up. Just move around. Just shake off this feeling. Just hide in the bathroom, where it's cool and quiet and private. Pani thoughts whisper to him that everyone is watching, everyone's staring at him and they'll ask why he's acting differently.

Alana is going on with some story to Sabrina. He tries to listen to her words, an uncomfortable ache creeping between his shoulder blades from them being drawn so tightly forward.

_Breathe. Sit back. Relax._

_It's not working._

_Try again._

_It's still not working._

Evan quickly gets up, is relieved that Alana and Sabrina don't seem to noice. Being invisible has a few lifts, amid the falls. Stepping around the coffee table, past the legs, endeavouring not to step on someone's feet, he is freed from their little circle and picks up his pace in the lobby.

"Hey, you good?" Jared must have gotten up too, his voice follows Evan through the lobby.

"Just fine." Evan turns around, manages a smile. Something is lodged in his throat, rock hard and cold. Choking it down, he says in a tone that he hopes isn't higher than his natural voice, "I'm just going to get something from my room."

Jared doesn't believe him but he acquiesces. The nights before competitions are rarely spent thinking about anyone other than yourself.

Evan finds the bathroom quickly. He could go to his room but he forgot that Jared has the key. Going back to find him is the last thing he wants to do. Besides, he doesn't mind the public bathroom. Cold tile, glossy mirrors and rows of sinks are more calming than people give them credit for being.

"Why sit in the bathroom?" Someone had asked him when he used to eat lunch in the school bathroom. "It's so cold."

Yes. Cold and quiet. A refuge from the warmth and noise.

Connor is on his phone by the sinks. Evan almost turns around but stops himself because there's no excuse he can think of about why someone would take two steps into a bathroom and change their mind.

Deciding to pretend to wash his hands, Evan quickly tucks his palms under the water. Cold water nearly turns his fingers blue but he tries to bide his time. Any kind of movement, even to adjust the water settings to hot is more movement than he wants to make right now and more attention than he wants to bring to himself. He'd rather freeze than move, moving just makes him feel the bones that barely are holding him up. Reaching behind himself for the paper towels, Connor slides a few across the counter.

"Ink," Evan says, trying to be the casual, relaxed version of Evan that he wants to be. _Oh god, that was worse to say. Nothing would be better. Let him just think you're strange for washing your hands for five minutes, don't try to explain it and screw it up even more._

"Yeah? What were you writing, your memoirs?" Connor glances over.

Forcing out a laugh, it just radiates the self-deprecation Evan is feeling. Unnatural, unfeeling, desperate. Connor pretends not to see his hands shaking, resumes staring at his phone.

Not looking up, he asks, "Want me to leave?"

"Sorry?"

"You. Space. Need it?"

Wadding the scratchy brown paper towel in his fists, it gives him something to hold, instead of occupying himself by picking at the skin of his forearm. Wavering a little, his frame swaying reminiscent of a pendulum, the floor is rocking back and forth. Are the tiles moving? Yes. They must be.

 _Breathe_.

"I'm fine."

"And I'm not in therapy." Connor looks up, as if Evan is finally more interesting than his phone. "I'm sorry, I thought we were trading lies here."

Connor's expression is indistinguishable. There's few opportunities to really see Connor's features; he always turns his head, lets his hair tumble over his eyes, will never hold anyone's stare for longer than a breath. Camera shy, with no cameras in sight.

The wall, just over Connor's shoulder, that's the most ideal place to look. That colourless, unforgiving wall. Perfect.

Some part of Evan spikes with anger, piercing through the blanket of panic. Connor could say something here, could make another remark but he doesn't and Evan is too indifferent toward him to be grateful.

Standing here in a mute stand-off, anti-staring contest with him is not what Evan expected to have happen when he stumbled in here. There's really no escape here, he's beginning to be resigned to that. Anxiety is subsiding into humiliation, the bitter best friend to the consequences of anxiety attacks.

Crashing in on him like a tree through a roof, he feels like he's a five-year old, immature, overly emotional and stupid.

Now he really wants to vomit.

How long has it been since either of them have spoken? Thirty seconds, at most. Could be thirty hours, though. Maybe the competition will be over when he steps out of the bathroom. "I'm ok, really."

Black fingernails tap against Connor's phone case, a repetitive rippling motion, his silver rings catching the florescent lighting. Silver bands with chained and twisted patterns. When one of his hands lift to tuck back a strand of hair, Evan's eyes follow them to Connor's face.

"I think you'll do…fine," Connor replies with some effort.

Fine. Disgusting word to Evan. "We're fine," is what his parents said, back when they loved each other. "Everything will be fine," is what his father said before he left. "You'll be fine now," is what the doctor said to Evan when he was scribbling down a prescription. "I'm fine," Evan says, like it's his most favourite word in the entire world.  
  
"Thanks."

Cold. Steely. He surprises himself with how repulsed his tone is. A thorny ball is in his stomach, creeping up his throat and blossoming ultra-violent words.

Connor's shoulder is bony as Evan brushes past him to get to the door.

Evan could have said, "Go to hell," with more warmth and kindness than this "Thanks".

 


	4. simplicity and history

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you so much for the support. Your thoughts on this story mean everything to me. Much love to all of you and I hope you enjoy this next chapter! Xx

He steps on the ice with Alana and it sets him free.

The crippling panic attack early this morning is still heavy in his bones but he doesn't have his own body to think about anymore.

The ice dancing programs were first this morning, followed by pairs at noon, women's at four and men's at eight.

Matt and Sabrina did well for ice dancing; not perfect, but no one particularly expected them to be outstanding. Their twizzles were their weakest point, his slightly under-rotated. They aren't dripping with charisma, talent or skill but they pull a good score when necessary. It was necessary today and they did their role solidly.

Pairs is always tight competition. Always has been, Evan's never known it to be any other way. As he skates behind Alana, he doubts that they'll make it high.

The lights are bright, too bright. Nervousness twists, his heart accelerating into overdrive. Perspiration gathers at his fingertips, despite their coldness. This is the worst part to him, waiting for the music to start. Everything, his breathing, his body, her's too, are holding still and waiting.

Waiting for the music.

It hits him like a tidal wave.

And he's moving, subconsciously. His focus swings to Alana as he skates around her, latching onto her waist with a secure arm. She follows suit, fingers indenting his shirt as she draws close to him. Featherlight, he lifts her off her skates, tosses her, slides her back onto the ice. She drifts a few feet apart, spins around and leaps into his arms; the sudden weight and pressure could off-centre anyone but Evan digs his blades into the ice.

The audience loves it, the judges are nodding.

Good for them.

They love lifts, jumps, everything in between.

So they give it to them, they give them everything they want and they give it to them on a silver platter— on ice skates.

\---

His shoulders are aching by the time it's over; pacing around in the warm-up room, he rolls them. Zoe, tucked in the corner, listening to her music, watches him with a trace of absentmindedness.

"You did good, I heard," she said, taking out an earphone, "I wasn't able to watch but I heard only good things."

Evan doesn't realise that she's speaking to him for a moment, before reeling and turning to look at her. She seems on edge, rather small while leaning against the mirror.

"Oh…thank you."

"Yeah."

"You're going to do great, I know you will." Evan believes this completely.

A wry smile from her. "You have a lot of confidence in me."

"I do."

"It's all over tomorrow."

"A year of training is going by quick."

"Always does, though. So I've heard," Zoe remarks, indifferent.

He doesn't answer right away, doesn't know what the right answer even is.

Zoe continues with a vague gesture of her phone. "This is my first year really doing this with the goal for the Nationals and beyond. Before then, it was just a hobby that my parents didn't invest much in. It was Connor who they invested it all in and he wasted it."

Hesitation grips at his muscles, limiting his movement a moment. He can't decide if asking for more information is something she's waiting for him to do or if it's a blatant rip into her personal life, her personal patchwork.

"Why…what did Connor do?"

She's really looking at him now. Not just a cursory glance, accompanied by a friendly smile. There's many layers to looking; she strips back several as he doesn't dare to blink, only stare quietly back. When his eyelashes half-flutter, the illusion, the mutual held breath stays.

Relief is a mild word.

"He isn't, wasn't…um, I don't know. I guess he's doing better now. But he wasn't, for a few years. He was a monster. His coach wouldn't let him skate after a while, he was too aggressive, too intense. He was hurting himself; he broke three ribs, his ankle twice and dislocated his shoulder."

"Just from skating?"

"You haven't see him skate, did you?"

"No, I never have."

"That explains a lot then." Zoe is too tired to be fully wry, only her tone mildly is influenced.

What Evan missed is not one isolated routine, one lazy moment on the ice. Connor's skating was a supercut; flying speeds, jumps that were dizzying to watch, a reckless hot adrenaline spike in every cut that his blades left on the ice. You heard him skating before you saw him. With his silver flashing blades hissing, the ice seemed to scream under his feet. His skating inspired conflicting emotions, none of them soft, tender or comfortable.

Fingers fiddle with her headphones, the nail polish beginning to chip around the edges. "He was a liability. The liability skater."

\---

After the rest of the pairs finish their skates, Zoe's skate is scheduled.

Connor's fingernails pick at the plastic seat in the audience, thin plastic shreds beginning to lift, digging into the beds of his nails. Nervous? No. Waiting? Yes.

Her short program has never given her trouble. She can channel the energy easily and she has effortless charm and appeal. Aesthetically, her skates are flawless.

She wasn't born with it, she put it in her DNA by herself.

Unusually strong nerves are curling inside of her stomach, her heart, her chest, as she steps onto the ice. She's one of the first skaters in the singles programs, the ice freshly cleaned off since pairs. It's glass to skate on.

Lifting her arms, she digs her toe-pick into the ice and waits.

It's always the wait that gets you.

Her shoulders are tight as she lowers them, the music beginning to echo through the high ceilings.

She moves, it's the only thing she can think of doing right now.

"What do you think about when you skate?" someone had asked her once. She managed a reply of some kind, something about focusing on the steps.

This is a lie.

She rarely thinks about her steps; her muscles do all the thinking about that. Sometimes her mind goes to random subjects, strange ones that she doesn’t expect. Other times, it repeats a hook of a song, a book quote, something someone said. Still other times, her mind drifts to emotions, not thoughts; something suddenly strikes her as humorous, sparks tainted nostalgia, makes her crushingly sad, lingers in the middle ground of bittersweet.

Even now, she's on auto-pilot, watching her arms and legs lift without any connection to them.

She thinks about her conversation with Evan. What he said, what he didn't say. Evan will no doubt heap consideration and understanding upon Connor; that's just his way, he wants to please everyone. A faint twinge of confusion is in her heart. There's no simple way to view everything.

Simplicity is a thing of the past.

Jared. Jared warned her not to be thrown. She's always had respect for him as a skater, he was one of the few who held his own even when Connor was his competition. Maybe he saw a flaw when she was practicing. A flaw she didn't notice.

_Am I watching my edges?_

_They're fine, calm down._

_You're going too fast, slow down a beat._

Leaning back, her arms stretch behind her, palms drag across the ice, her knees growing chaffed from the slide across the ice. They'll be bleeding later but she doesn't mind; bloody knees, palms and feet are common for skaters. It's a difficult component, difficult to rise up from.

She pulls it off.

Drawing into her final position, hands cupped and lifted above her head as if offering a gift to a higher being.

It's not a messy skate or a bad one. It's good, it's more than good. It's excellent.

It's distracted, though.

'Overthinking it,' she can already imagine the judges saying amongst themselves. Warmth creeps into her cheeks, despite the cold. Her stomach is twisting wildly now, breath finally catching up with her and heartbeat surpassing her as it continues to hammer it's lung prison.

She can't think of a moment that was deeply flawed, a fall or a misstep.

It had everything but _her_.

\---

Jared's skate category comes after the rest of the girls finish theirs. He's one of the last skaters in the category— extra pressure, extra honour.

He forgets his tact the way that people forget where they put their glasses; as he warms up, he sees Zoe distantly and moodily sitting on the floor in the practice room. Pausing, he bluntly asks her what her deal is.

"What?"

"You're acting weird. How was your skate?"

Suddenly flippant, she draws her knees to her chest. A defensive response, covering up and deflecting his words like a shield against his arrows. "It was fine."

"Fine," he repeats, "Okay, then."

His I'm just being patient tone grates against her. Her pulse picks up, her desert of emptiness now stumbling upon an oasis of anger. "You threw me."

He does not look offended, stunned or anything akin to those delicate, wounded emotions. A solitary eyebrow lifts, arms loosely fold against his torso. "I wasn't even there," he finally replies.

"You didn't have to be. You made me doubt myself. When we were practicing yesterday, you told me not to get thrown and I did. I never would have thought about it if you hadn't said anything."

Jared calmly reminds her, "You said your skate went 'fine'. Did you fall or something?"

"No." There's a sour taste in the back of her throat. "I wish I had. No, I did fine and that's all. Just fine."

"If I sit will you hit me?"

It takes all she can not to roll her eyes but she acquiesces. Kneeling down a safe distance away, letting her personal space breathe freely, Jared keeps his hands busy by adjusting the laces of his skates.

"Okay, I’m going to take a super rough shot in the dark here but say that you aren't used to this level of pressure?"

"No."

"Is Connor being here making it worse?" His fingers tug at the laces, fingernails pilling some of the edges the harder he pulls.

Jared, she assumed, would understand the Connor part of the equation. That much at least. Her assumption proves correct; he remembers vividly how it felt to skate in his shadow, knowing how Connor must despise any competition.

Yes. "Maybe," she allows herself to admit.

"Tell him not to go to the next one then," he suggests.

"I doubt he'd listen to me. He's…Connor about everything."

"Okay. Well, this is going to sound off-topic but, like, do you actually love to skate? Do you ledit enjoy this? Cause you don't look or sound like you do."

"I don't love to skate," Zoe says and is surprised by her own conviction, "I used to. But I need to. I need to skate, whether I want to or not. It's the only way that I am _me_. And in a way, I do love that I need it."

"I think you kind of solved your problem." He rests his skates on the floor beside him, makes her look him in the eyes. "You need this. Your skating needs you. Your coach doesn't need you, the judges and Connor don’t need you to do this. So just go do what you need to do and do it just for you."

Gazing back at him in silent appreciation, she's got to breathe, because she's been stifling the air in her lungs for a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this chapter! I'll upload the next chapter soon. Comments and kudos are always appreciated Xx


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